


The Next Best Thing

by MercuryPheonix



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPheonix/pseuds/MercuryPheonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s always accepted the uncertainty, surprise, and unpredictability that came from long term acquaintance with Robert Frobisher. But – as the man steps forward, a spectacle, a blur of whalebone and stockings and smokey eyes and <em>in the name of all that’s holy he’s wearing lipstick too</em> – this was never something he’d ever thought to prepare himself for."</p><p>Frobisher has been trying to get Sixsmith to sleep with a woman for a while. Sixsmith is not doing as he's told. So Frobisher decides to give him the next best thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Best Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metaphoricalrhetorical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaphoricalrhetorical/gifts).



> Because if she hadn't introduced me to [this](http://www.revlon.com/Revlon-Home/Interactive-Tools-Menu/Interactive-Face-Tool.aspx) programme, this piece would never have been written. 

“You didn’t do as you were told.”

Sixsmith hears the words, vaguely registering in his mind as the door shuts behind him. He can feel his eyes widening, his brain searching for some kind of coherence, to not make an idiot of himself, but the redness of embarrassment is nothing compared to creeping heat of something completely different.

He’s always accepted the uncertainty, surprise, and unpredictability that came from long term acquaintance with Robert Frobisher. But – as the man steps forward, a spectacle, a blur of whalebone and stockings and smokey eyes and _in the name of all that’s holy he’s wearing lipstick too_ – this was never something he’d ever thought to prepare himself for.

 He swallows. Hard. Forces his brain to function.

“What are you – I mean, why are you - ?”

“I’ve been telling you for years that you need to sleep with a woman, Sixsmith,” that voice, floating between the unfamiliarly familiar redness of those lips is definitely having an effect, and it certainly isn’t disapproval. Especially as they are moved forward, brushing lightly against his ear, the sensation strange, different, and definitely not unenjoyable. “You ass. I don’t like it when you don’t listen to me.”

The press of body warmth against his side; not quite touching, but almost, just the lingering heat; Sixsmith glances down, as much as he dares, willing himself to conjure anything other than the churning in his stomach, some sort of rejection, maybe, or displeasure – but then he sees the twisted familiarity, the eyes as expressive as they ever were but shrouded in dark powder, in shadow, bringing out every definition, the dark crimson of the lips, so well chosen (damn this man), heightening the natural colour, red and plump and glistening in a way that he’s definitely not seen before, and dammit, a few seconds ago he was definitely capable of forming sentences to a university standard.

“I think you’ll find – “ yes, that’s good words and sentences, coming together, rationality, this is what he needs “ – that I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

Frobisher is absolutely pressed against him now. He can feel the jut of the corset against his side; one hand spreading gently across his hip, long nails nicking slightly against his clothing (they must be fake, he somehow manages to think, Frobisher could never have long nails because of the piano), and the press of a knee against his own, the catch of the stocking material, not quite skin and not quite clothes either.

“But, Sixsmith,” he can feel the smile, the smugness, the arrogance in eliciting exactly the reaction he was planning. “I did this all for you. I just want you to experience everything. And if I can’t make you…well, I can give you the next best thing…”

Goddammit. _Goddammit_.

The first thing he notices is how different Frobisher's lips feel as they press forward – a stickiness, a wetness, he can feel it spreading across his own, leaving a mark (he can only imagine what it looks like, painting his own mouth crimson), and the taste, it’s Frobisher and something else, the taste of the lipstick and the taste of Frobisher rolled into one. And the slight scratch of stubble, he can hear the scrape of it against his own – he’s shaved, he can tell, but it’s still there, just there, only a little but rough enough to catch on every one of his nerve endings. He can barely breathe. It’s like kissing the same person but, at the same time, an utter stranger.

 But not those hands – he knows those hands and they know him, the gentle nudging reassurance of familiarity, tugging at his shirt, searching for his skin, hitting every single key to elicit just the right note from his throat.

His hands find Frobisher’s waist, drawn in, pinched, accentuated by the corset that holds him together. For a moment, he wonders whether he should consider undoing it, but his shaking fingers couldn’t work it out if they tried – and, anyway, he’s intrigued by the shape of it, the way it contorts Frobisher’s body into something he’s not quite seen. He can curl his hands on the swell of the hips, dipping into the waist, cupping him. Some of his clothes are off, but he isn’t coherent enough to figure out which ones. There’s nails at his skin, pressing gently, not quite nicking the skin, but trailing with just enough pressure to –

_Fuck._

He can’t remember. He can’t remember when they reached the bed. Or how. Or where his clothes went. Or which ones he’s still wearing. Or for how long his fingers fumbled with the back of the godforsaken contraption holding Frobisher together before realising that he wanted it to stay on. Or when one leg hooked around his waist, the edge of a heel scratching against his thigh before the shoe is kicked away. Or when his fingers found Frobisher’s leg, stroking along the material of the stocking, the familiar bumps and ridges obscured only slightly, and the tentative feel of the hair on those legs, pressing through, catching on his palm, femininity and masculinity and god knows he can’t tell the two apart anymore.

And then it’s just heat, and bodies, and clutching, rolling together like waves – no, that’s not right, not rolling, _crashing_ – the stiffness of the corset pressed against his chest; that magical moment when material became skin, and flesh, and heartbeats; his fingers still cupping that accentuated waist, gripping tight, bruising, he can tell, but he can’t stop; the stockings raking across his thighs; the stain of redness across his throat as Frobisher buries his face into the hollow of his neck, laughing and gasping against his collarbone in equal measure, smugness and ecstasy, pulling them closer and harder and deeper; and the contrast of lipstick and stubble, and stocking and hair, and corset and cock, blurring every line that he’d ever expected about anything, and he’s too busy grunting and clutching and coming to even care.

“I told you,” he can hear the words pulsing out of the smudged lips as their bodies stutter and tremble and finally settle for heaving against one another. “I told you you’d enjoy it.”

Sixsmith shifts slightly, the cramp that’s been creeping into his body finally registering in his brain. He breathes out with each movement, finally rolling off to the side with his fingers splayed out across Frobisher’s chest, half-touching corset and half-touching skin.

“You are actually trying to destroy the last few shreds of sanity I have left.”  

Frobisher turns to him, grinning loosely, make-up caught in every single arrogant, smug and self-satisfied crevice of his face.

“Absolutely.”

It crosses his mind for a moment  –  as Frobisher sprawls out beside him, limply tugging at his arms and pouting until Sixsmith gives in and curls his body in around him - that they should probably think about getting him out of the clothes and make up, and then cleaning up before they go to sleep. But then he remembers that, for once, these sheets are Frobisher’s and not his, and he can’t summon the energy to give a damn.

“You know,” he mumbles slightly against him, his mouth full of dark tangled hair. “I’m still not going to sleep with a woman.”

He feels Frobisher’s laugh more than hears it – the slow rumble in his chest as he, as always, manages to get in the last words before they fall into unconsciousness.

“Give me time, Sixsmith. Give me time.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (Beleaguered) Birthday!!


End file.
